The Exit of Nick Carraway
by CastlesInTheAir
Summary: This was written as a school assignment, as an Epilogue to F.Scott Fitzgerald's novel. This is my idea of what Nick would have done, before leaving for good... even if you haven't read the book, opinions are appreciated.


The Great Gatsby - An Epilogue

The air is warm this morning. It seems brimful with recollections.

It feels as though with a bit of effort on my part, I could reach out and take a piece for my own. Perhaps bring it away with me. Although I don't know what I'd do with it, once I leave. Maybe I could lock it away, where no one could ever reach it, and only I would have the ability to access it? Maybe I could share it, piece by piece, with anyone willing to care for it? I'm doubtful as to wether anyone would want it apart from myself. I think I'll leave it where it should stay.

The sun seems to be smiling at me across the horizon. I don't know why, and it bothers me. Has he forgotten all he has seen so quickly, or is he purposefully pushing all memories to the back of his mind, just so he can smile down every morning? Nevertheless, he looks at me as if he knows just what I'm thinking. It's quite unsettling, in a way I've never known before. It seems I'll have to continue facing him every day, as long as I live. Another battle to be won.

My trunk feels just as it did on that day which seems to have been gone an age. It's no heavier, no lighter. It carries things of my own, and the catch is still stiff – still clasped together as it was when I closed it. That was last night, and I don't intend upon opening it until I arrive.

The gravel makes a strangely sharp sound as I crush it beneath my feet. The morning air seems to enhance every sense, every sight, and every sound in a way I've never known before. To be frank, I don't believe I've been awake at this hour of the morning as of late, nor have I given more than a few moments of thought to this strange magic. Perhaps, because I never before had a reason. Still, I never really owned the gravel, nor the driveway upon which it scatters.

I step slowly off the driveway, and set down my trunk, beneath the cool shade of a tree.

And there it is, rising before me, larger than life in every way. Every window is shut tight, I don't see how the warm air can reach the inside. I shouldn't expect it to be any other way. I had thought, however, that last night was the final time I would come here. I must have been wrong – for I feel in my mind as though I had to come, just one more time, to listen… but I cannot hear the sounds anymore. Not the incessant ramblings of the drunkards stumbling across the immaculate lawn, the lilting, high pitched voices of the young women, the gruff, excited tones of the men. There is no more life, all is motionless and dead in the warmth of the sunlight. I feel, too, that I'm beginning to forget the sound of his voice. Perhaps it passed, with the night.

His lawn is more than overgrown. In all truth, it resembles the way mine used to be in the habit of looking. I never did have it cut again, not after the day on which he had his man was sent over to do it for me. I let it grow wild, without so much as a pinch of guilt. Still, I feel no guilt. Let the place be untidy and rambling… I won't be returning to it.

In my pocket – I can feel it if trace my fingers over the place – there is a small notebook. Small and worn, filled with the things I can remember. Fishing a pencil from my pocket and snatching at the memory before it fades, I scribble a small note: '…_Gatsby was great.'_ Indeed, he was. He was of the rare kind who unswervingly believed in the hopes of men. What drastic hopes they turn out to be. If I allow my mind to wander, I can think how I had hoped for the affection of a certain cynical, unsmiling girl… but no, the shiver running down my spine persuades me again of my own recklessness.

My wristwatch tells me it's almost time. Ah, _time_… we are all fated to be bound by it. All except Gatsby, for whom time had been no obstacle. Maybe things would have fared better, had he realised all he squandered. Nevertheless, the time which he spent must have been filled with some of the most blissful hopes a man could ever know.

The view of the water is always best from here. I can see now, the beauty surrounding him of which he was completely oblivious. The beauty is different, now, somewhat. It has seen too much. The sun laughs, and lifts higher above the water, and it seems for a moment that maybe, just maybe, a man could walk straight across that small golden path and reach out to touch the greatest of God's creations… thought I'm sure even that is not all it's spoken about to be.

The distant, urgent hoot of a train tells me I must leave. With a last, lingering glance, I pick up my trunk, turn my back decisively, and leave Gatsby behind me forever.


End file.
